


Focus on the Fallout

by RascalJoy (DarkQuill)



Series: Where the Healing Begins (Fix You) [3]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Attempted Suicide, Past Attempted Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, VERY dysfunctional, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-11 12:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11148027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkQuill/pseuds/RascalJoy
Summary: Why was this so hard? Just walk into the room, talk to Tim, make sure everything's cool...Who was Dick kidding.How were you supposed to act around someone who'd secretly tried to kill himself not even 48 hours ago?!**Sequel to "Weighing One's Worth"**





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> It's DONE. FINALLY. Little over a year later, but...
> 
> Sorry it took so long to get this out, but I swear, writing this was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Meaning, the second Dick and Tim interaction (you'll know it when you see it), and the final scene which, due to Doc Manager being phooey, is now going to be an epilogue to be posted within a week. I literally had writer's block for around eight months on that aforementioned interaction, both due to order of events and believable character progression (emotional!Tim is uuuurrrrgggghhhh), before it suddenly just CLICKED. The struggles I had with the epilogue afterward paled in comparison, but were still enough to keep this thing against the grinder for another four months. I've reread/rewrote/rearranged/edited this more times than I have any fic of mine so far; I've actually gotten to the point where I'm probably overthinking things, so I'm going to quit while I'm ahead and post it.
> 
> After all of y'all's AMAZING responses on WoW, I wanted this one to be perfect. You guys absolutely blew me away with your positive feedback. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your support this past year! I hope this meets expectations! :)
> 
> IMPORTANT: This is the third installment of the "Where the Healing Begins (Fix You)" series. "Of Milkshakes and Marathons" (first in the series) is referenced and therefore recommended, but not necessary in order to understand this story. However, this is a direct sequel to "Weighing One's Worth," and as such, WoW should be read before you attempt this one. Finally, I have a Spotify playlist for this series called "Weighing One's Worth," if y'all are interested. More info on my Fanfiction profile.
> 
> WARNING: Rated HIGH T for a referenced past suicide attempt, semi-suicidal thoughts, and just depression in general.
> 
> Now that those are out of the way, please enjoy the long awaited sequel to "Weighing One's Worth."

_Lights will guide you home_  
_And ignite your bones_  
_And I will try_  
_To fix you_

_~ "Fix You" by Coldplay_

* * *

 

Dick hastened down the hallway, the faintest hint of worry fluttering in his chest. Okay, make that a sinking Titanic full of worry.

It had been almost two hours since he'd asked Damian to go upstairs and see if he could find Tim. Although he knew his second brother had arrived sometime this afternoon to spend the weekend at the Manor, Dick had seen neither hide nor hair of the teen despite Alfred's assurances that he'd arrived in one piece.

Of course, Tim was infamous for disappearing for hours on end, caught up in some aspect of his work. But he usually at least said 'hi' first.

Reaching Tim's ajar bedroom door, Dick peeked around the doorframe, squinting into the dark chamber for any sign of a tell-tale lump on the bed. Nada. A quick glance told him that Tim's desk was empty, too, and the light in the adjacent bathroom was off.

Frowning slightly, he pulled his head back into the hallway, prepared to check the living room when a quiet, breathy sigh echoed from the opening behind him. Dick froze, whirling around to probe the shadowy depths for any sign of the source. But his probing gaze still found nothing out of the ordinary.

Unless...

Utilizing every ounce of his training, Dick crept back into the seemingly empty bedroom, tiptoeing around the foot of the bed. He peered around the corner into the space between the wall and the mattress—and promptly had to stop his jaw from dropping at the scene in front of him.

Tim, of course, was wedged tightly within the small space, head drooping in sleep. The surprise came from the fact that one arm was wrapped around the compact little ball that was Damian Wayne, who, for lack of a better word, had curled around Tim like a baby koala, hand fisted almost protectively into the front of Tim's sweater without any hint of malice or attempted strangulation.

His little brothers were...snuggling?

Despite himself, a huge grin spread over Dick's features, and it was all he could do not to coo aloud as he carefully backed up from the scene, phone raised to snap a photo (read as, 'collect blackmail') of this momentous occasion... Only to nearly slip and fall onto his butt as his foot tread on something hard and _round_.

Soundlessly regaining his balance while mentally screaming curses, Dick bent down to grasp the cold, metal object that had nearly sent him flying.

Squinting, his heart stuttered in his chest as the thing glinted in the pale moonlight wafting between the curtains. It was a bullet.

Immediately on alert, Dick glanced at the window, searching for any signs of forced entry. None. Nevertheless, he swept his eyes over the room again for some indication that there was an intruder hiding in the shadows, double checking for any blood visible on either the floor or his two brothers. Nada.

Another glitter of metal twinkled in his peripheral vision, and he whirled around to face the corner. Five more bullets lay scattered on the floor. In addition to a presumably empty gun and a familiarly patterned knife.

But...these weren't bullet shells; they were complete bullets, meaning they hadn't actually been fired at anything. Which probably ruled out an intruder.

Taking a quick glance to ensure his brothers hadn't stirred, Dick ghosted toward the corner, crouching beside the two abandoned weapons.

With unerring certainty, he took in the design on the hilt of the knife: The symbol of the house of Al Ghul. This was Damian's knife. And the gun...he'd never seen the gun before.

The pieces slowly clicked into place in his mind, but Dick refused to acknowledge the horrific picture they were building.

This couldn't be right. He needed more evidence. There was no way…it wasn’t _right_ , it…

Dick’s eyes wandered to his peacefully sleeping brothers. No. Before he dared draw such a terrible conclusion, he needed proof. He needed a _witness_.

And seeing as _Damian_ was the one who'd walked in on _Tim_...

Creeping from the bedroom, Dick carefully eased the door closed behind him. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, he was going to find out exactly what happened between his two youngest brothers.

* * *

 It was almost two days later before Dick found an opportunity (mustered the courage) to bring it up to the former assassin. The two of them were in the library, Damian stretched out on the couch reading a book while Dick curled in a nearby armchair, fingers tapping nervously on his knee. Considering the circumstances, it was all he could do not to be more conspicuous. It was approaching their usual patrol time, the sun just visible over the horizon outside the window at his back.

Well…might as well get this over with before he did something stupid like stalk Tim across the rooftops due to unfounded paranoia.

Before Dick could fully process his decision, his mouth opened: "Damian."

The boy froze for a millisecond, fingers clenching almost imperceptibly around the edges of the book before relaxing—instant red flag. "What is it, Grayson?" Damian snapped, annoyed.

If Dick didn't know him so well, he probably wouldn't have caught the slight shrill quality in Damian's voice. (Damian may have been a good liar, but when something was pressing on his mind that he knew he shouldn't be keeping to himself, he’d never been very good at hiding his guilt.)

No point in beating around the bush; especially since it was clear Damian had more than an inkling about what was about to go down.

Dick hesitated, sucking in a breath. Half out. “I need to know what happened with you and Tim the other night."

Damian's already guarded expression completely closed off, the book coming up almost protectively to hide his features. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Grayson."

"I saw you," Dick admitted. "Both of you. Sleeping on the other side of Tim's bed. And I saw the...the _things_ you tossed in the corner. The knife and the gun."

Damian tensed again. "It's none of your business, Grayson."

If that wasn’t a tell as to how serious the situation had been, Dick was an elephant.

"Please, Damian," Dick begged. "I need to understand. Please help me understand. I want to help you, help _Tim_ , but I can't do that if I don't know what happened."

The child before him remained frozen, blue eyes fixed on the shadows just outside the doorway. Dick forced himself to remain silent, waiting for Damian to make a decision one way or the other.

Just when Dick thought the boy might walk out on him altogether, Damian spoke: "When you sent me to look in on Drake the night he first arrived. The door was locked. I picked it open. Then I walked in and...and he..." Damian swallowed, face momentarily twisting with some foreign emotion before settling back into a carefully blank expression. "He had a gun. To his head."

Dick sucked in a breath. He'd been hoping against hope that the obvious wasn't true; had struggled to come up with any scenario other than the one that was staring him in the face.

But apparently his striving was in vain.

"How did you convince him not to?" Dick asked carefully. There was no point in asking if Damian was responsible for Tim's change of heart; Tim wouldn’t be upstairs (alive) at the moment otherwise.

Damian hesitated.

A frozen wave of horror shuddered through Dick's chest. "Did it have something to do with the knife." Not a question.

There was a beat of silence. Two.

Then, “I may have held myself hostage until he saw sense," Damian admitted flatly, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Damian!" Dick cried, horrified.

Flashing cobalt eyes whirled towards Dick, meeting his gaze for the first time since the conversation began. "It worked, didn't it?"

"The ends don't always justify the means, Damian."

Damian's eyes flashed. "Are you saying you would rather Drake had shot himself in the head while I just sat still and watched him do it?!"

"No!" Dick protested. Ran a hand through his hair, mind whirling with the attempt to _fix this_. “Oh Dami, that's not what I'm saying at _all_. I'm just...there had to be another way."

"If you're going to say I should have attempted to talk him out of it, I _did_ ," Damian stressed. "The point is he wouldn't listen. How do you convince someone not to kill himself if he's so bent on doing it whether you're _in_ the room or _not_?!"

And...Dick didn't have an answer for that. Then the words sank in fully. "Wait. Are you saying...Tim almost...while you were in the _room_?"

Damian's studious glare at the empty fireplace gave him his answer.

Dick's heart sank, horror fluttering in its place. "Why would he do that?" he breathed, mostly to himself.

"I'm a former assassin who hates every fiber of his being," Damian answered, monotonous. "I don't have feelings."

"That's not true," Dick interjected.

"I know _that_ ," Damian snapped. " _He_ obviously doesn't."

Sighing, Dick pinched the bridge of his nose. This just kept getting more and more complicated, and not in a fun way. "Okay, let's back up," he suggested. "Why did Tim even try to do...that...in the first place?"

The current Robin shrugged stiffly. "I'm the last person he would tell as to his reasons. I do not pretend to watch out for his feelings."

"Which also might make you the only person he can confidently confide in," Dick theorized. "Because he thinks you don't care anyway, he'd think you wouldn't try to stop him."

"He was wrong," Damian spat vehemently.

"I know, Dami. And I'm so proud of you for it. But..." _Did Tim think the same way about everyone?_

"I'm going to go talk to him," Dick decided, unexplainable guilt gnawing at his chest as he stood, slipping around the couch toward the door. "See if—"

"No!"

Dick froze. Turned around. Forced himself not to snap at the stiff child before him. "No?"

Cheeks beet red, Damian shuffled his feet against the carpet. "He...he doesn't trust you, Grayson."

Dick blinked. "What?" he questioned, even as his heart sank deeper in his chest. "Why?"

Damian hesitated, actually appearing...uncomfortable. A word Dick had never associated with Damian Wayne before.

"You replaced him," Damian blurted. "After my father was lost in the timeline, Drake had a sum total of one person he cared about left, and that was _you_. _You_ betrayed his trust when you took away the one thing that had been an indefinite constant in his life: Robin. A role that he admitted himself to not believing he had ever been worthy of, that he felt he had to earn along with his place at Batman's side. And even then he never believed he was good enough. You proved that to him by removing him from the costume seemingly without a second thought. He feels replaceable and unnecessary."

Damian sucked in a breath; exhaled slowly. "While I am not saying you made a poor decision, as I am clearly the better Robin, I believe that due to that instance you have as of yet to regain his trust.” Almost an afterthought: “If he'll ever give it back to you at all."

* * *

Later that night, Dick positioned himself at the end of the Manor's second floor hallway, staring at the meager band of light shining under the bedroom door a short way down. He wasn't stupid enough to sift through his thoughts in front of the actual door. They were all Bat-trained, after all.

Why was this so hard? Just walk into the room, talk to Tim, make sure everything's cool...

Who was he kidding.

How were you supposed to act around someone who'd secretly tried to kill himself not even 48 hours ago?!

In truth, Dick had no idea what he was doing; how to fix this situation, fix his _brother_. Tim may have had neglectful parents that the Bats could blame for Tim’s self-deprecating state of mind, but everything that happened afterward was completely on them—completely on _Dick_.

Because after Bruce died, Dick had scrambled to fill his shoes in every way, struggled to fill the void the Bat had left behind both in the hero world and in the family by trying to be exactly like him. Unfortunately, that included doing what was practical in the long run without considering the consequences of the moment to others’ feelings on the matter, or at least explaining his reasons properly. And part of the collateral to those decisions was Tim.

And even before that…after Jason, Dick had been so afraid of getting to know the newest Robin—so terrified of getting close only to lose a brother all over again. This fear had carried through Tim’s first couple years in the Cave, before Dick finally consolidated the fact in his mind that he would rather know Tim and lose him then simply tick him off as another dead Robin. Except that initial paranoia caused just what he’d feared, only in a way Dick could never have imagined.

He'd isolated Tim. Most recently by taking Robin from him without giving him the exact reason why. Before, by leaving him alone to deal with a closed off, grieving Bruce who could barely consolidate the fact he had lost Jason, let alone taken yet another Robin under his wing. Or rather, had another Robin force his way under his wing.

Realization dawned. That was what the problem was, wasn't it? Bruce didn't choose Tim. _Tim_ chose Tim. Though that had never been a problem for Dick, it was in Tim's nature to keep at least a thread of doubt, even guilt, hidden away in his mind that maybe because he wasn't handpicked by the Bat, he'd never be good enough.

And now it was up to Dick to try and remove that doubt before it consumed his second brother completely…while also not letting Tim know that he knew what had happened and was trying to help him in the first place.

When Dick had asked for siblings, he'd never thought it could get this complicated.

Before he could change his mind, Dick stepped into the hallway, not attempting to hide his footsteps, but not pronouncing them either. Forcing a smile on his face, Dick burst into the bedroom. "Hiya, Timmy!"

And shoot, Dick's heart broke at the sight that greeted his eyes. The teen looked _normal_. Clothes slightly crumpled from the second day's wear; mouth curved slightly downward in concentration; just too long hair mussed around his face, hanging over pale blue eyes squinting at the laptop perched on his knees... Looking decidedly _not_ like he'd been about to put a bullet in his brain a couple nights before.

Tim had always been great at hiding his feelings, at pretending certain things didn't happen if it meant forgetting and moving on to a cursory 'I'm fine' whenever someone questioned his well-being. But attempted suicide wasn't something you just _forgot_. Or something you could recover from alone.

Dick jerked from his thoughts as Tim glanced up from the computer, almost absently. "Hey."

And there it was. Beneath the carefully controlled facade, Dick could see the cracks lurking below the surface—the pain flickering behind the confusion in his eyes, purple bags like bruises on his lower eyelids, the empty hollow of his cheeks....

"What are you doing here?" Tim asked. And Tim shouldn't sound that _surprised_.

"I haven't seen much of you lately, Timmy," Dick replied honestly, trotting over to the bed and settling onto the mattress beside Tim, careful not to upset any of the paperwork spread over the comforter as he slung an arm over his little brother's shoulders. "S'okay if I chill here for awhile?"

Tim opened his mouth; hesitated. "Uh...sure. Yeah, that's fine."

For a moment, they sat in silence, Tim's fingers eventually finding the keys on the keyboard again and tapping away at some report or other.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Dick asked casually, squeezing his brother against his side and pressing his lips into Tim's soft black hair.

Minutely, almost so Dick thought he'd imagined it, Tim stiffened. Then, "Nah, I'm good. Why don't you see if the Demon Brat needs anything? I think he was complaining about some homework assignment or other yesterday."

"I will," Dick promised, deciding to let the not-so-subtle attempt at kicking him out slide. "Later. Whatcha working on?"

"Just some Wayne Enterprises stuff," Tim said, relaxing marginally as he selected an entire paragraph of text and hit 'delete.' "Finalizing the data Lucius sent me and writing it up in report format for the next board meeting. I'll need to put it in a Power Point later."

Dick hummed lightly, planting his chin in Tim's hair. "Sounds boring. We should watch a movie instead."

He was rewarded with an amused snort. "Maybe later. Deadline's coming up, I have to finish this."

"Need any help?"

"Nah, I'm good." That was a bit _too_ quick.

"Hey," Dick said softly, rubbing Tim's arm. "You know I'm always here when you need me, right? Just...let me know if there's anything bugging you or I need to go kick someone into next week. Don't pull a Bruce and hold everything inside. S'not healthy."

Tim barked a laugh; half amused, half bitter. "Sure. I'll keep that in mind."

It was all Dick could do not to cry as he pressed his lips back in that soft black hair, squeezing his brother against his chest despite the small grunt of protest as the laptop slid from the teen’s lap.

Because Tim didn't believe him. And Dick was beginning to worry that he never would.

* * *

Why Dick thought it would be a good idea to get Bruce involved, he had no idea. Desperation? Yeah, probably. Bruce wasn't exactly the go-to person for problems in the emotional department. But with Alfred off on his yearly trip to England (and Dick tried so _hard_ to block the thought that Tim was probably counting on that fact when he decided to pick up the gun), it wasn’t like Dick had many options left.

After briefly checking the locations of the Manor's two other current occupants, Dick stepped into the passage revealed by the old grandfather clock in Bruce's study and padded down the familiar stone staircase into the dimly lit Batcave. As expected, Bruce was at the massive computer to his right, various news channels, reports, and video clips flashing on the multiple screens as Bruce worked his latest case.

Hesitating only a moment at the foot of the stairs, Dick moved to stand behind his mentor's chair, glancing at the rapidly expanding algorithm Bruce was pounding out on the main screen.

Bruce certainly _looked_ busy. But this couldn't wait.

"Bruce."

The man grunted noncommittally, continuing his record-breaking typing on the computer. (Maybe _that's_ where Tim got it from....)

"Bruce, I need to talk to you."

"Later," Bruce said shortly.

"It's about Tim."

"What about him?" Not even remotely concerned—either too trusting, or too uncaring. (Dick hoped the former.)

"He tried to kill himself."

 _That_ gave Bruce pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard as white lenses remained fixed on the screen in front of him. "What?"

"You heard me."

There was a moment of silence. Dick braced himself for the coming interrogation.

Sure enough, Bruce whirled in the chair, pulling back his cowl in the same motion to reveal mussed black hair and narrowed cobalt eyes. "When?"

"Two nights ago."

"Where?"

"His room, on the wall side of his bed."

"How?"

"With a gun."

A flicker of something—surprise? apprehension?—crossed Bruce's face, so fast Dick thought he had imagined it. Then, just slightly breathy: _"Why?"_

"I'm not sure yet," Dick admitted, starting to pace a line paralleling the massive computer terminal, but still within easy talking distance. "That's what I'm trying to find out."

"Who or what stopped him?"

Dick exhaled slowly. "Damian."

Definite bemusement crossed the Dark Knight's features. "Damian," he repeated. "How?"

Dick shrugged. "He talked to him. Somehow convinced him that suicide wasn't the best option."

Suicide. Dick realized that that was the first time he'd called what Tim had almost done for what it was. It didn't make him feel any less sick to his stomach at the admission.

Bruce's eyes flickered with...something. "I see."

There was a lengthy silence.

Finally, Bruce (miracle of miracles) was the one to break it, repeating: "Why?"

"I told you, I don't know."

"Damian must have known something if he talked to Tim," Bruce growled, back to his default Bat-mode. But when Dick glanced back into the man's cobalt eyes, behind the stubborn stoicism, Bruce's expression was anything but controlled. For the first time since Dick had known him, Bruce looked _lost_.

"You have to know _something_ ," Bruce insisted at Dick's hesitation.

"He feels...unnecessary," Dick admitted finally. "Unneeded, unwanted. Like he isn't even an actual member of this family, no matter what the adoption papers say."

Bruce frowned, genuine confusion flashing across his hardened features. "Of course he's wanted. Why would—?"

"He doesn't _know_ that, Bruce," Dick interrupted. "We— _I_ replaced him without his consent. I broke his trust, _and_ ruined what little progress we'd made in the way of showing him he had a real family; one that doesn't believe he's just there for the grunt work and easily replaceable."

And Bruce gave him this _look_.

"Hey, I'm guilty, too," Dick assured, holding his hands up in surrender. "But haven't you noticed how many of _your_ responsibilities, both Bat and Wayne, that _Tim_ has been doing lately? Without receiving or expecting anything in return?"

The furrows between Bruce's eyes deepened, eyebrows drawing together in an almost scowl.

Dick barely resisted the harsh, 'Exactly,' that threatened to escape his lips.

"We've got to help him," he blurted instead after a moment. "But we can't make it obvious. If Tim knows we know, he'll think that we're only being nice to him because we pity him for almost...yeah." Dick paused in his pacing, turning on his heel to stare Bruce full in the face. "We have to make sure he feels wanted— _loved_. _You_ have to make sure he knows that."

Bruce made no reply. Not that Dick expected one.

"Look," Dick said, placating, "I know you're not so good with telling someone how you feel, but if you could just...I don't know, actions speak louder than words? _Show_ Tim he has a family."

"He did have a family," Bruce said.

"Yeah, but they weren't real," Dick protested. "Bruce, Tim's parents spent his childhood hopping around the world and leaving Tim to be raised essentially by the housekeeper. Not to mention all those boarding schools. Sure his dad did better in the end, but then he died and it was too late."

Dick froze. "Bruce," he breathed, cold, hard realization washing over him. "He doesn't know what a real family is supposed to look like. We can't show him what's normal family behavior if he doesn't know what normal _is_." He swore. "Bruce, how do we _fix_ him?"

* * *

It was on a total hunch that Dick decided to call Jason.

He sprawled on the armchair in the Manor’s library, staring up at the white ceiling in thought as the phone rang in his ear.

It was only 1am. Jason should still be awake. The question was whether or not he was patrolling tonight. Hopefully, that would be a 'no.' Talking personal issues and all that jazz over the comms, even using their code names, had been strictly prohibited since...well, as long as Dick could remember. For good reason, too. He didn't even want to think about what might happen if someone hacked their line and discovered that Red Robin had nearly teetered over the edge from depression...

His musing was cut short as a disgruntled, sleep rough voice snapped in his ear: "This had better be good, Goldie. I was all set up for a solid 12 hours until you stuck your mighty big butt in the way."

"Tim nearly shot his own brains out, and I don't know what to do."

Shuffling was heard on the other line as Jason presumably sat up in bed. "What? Why?"

Dick shrugged helplessly, then realized the gesture was lost over the phone. "Overworked. Unwanted, unneeded. He doesn't see himself as...necessary, I suppose."

"I thought he'd gotten _over_ that," Jason muttered.

"What?" Dick demanded, jerking upright. "What are you talking about, Jay? This has happened _before_? Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Cool your jets," Jason snapped. "If you're asking if Tim has tried to put a bullet in his brain on my watch, then no, this has _not_ happened before."

Dick winced at the abrupt phrasing.

There was an awkward pause.

From the other end, Jason huffed. "Look, Dick, you remember how I told you to rearrange the kid's schedule a couple weeks ago so he could have a day off?"

Dick nodded minutely—realized Jason couldn't see him through the phone and added: "Yeah. Why?"

"I may not have told you that I found him doping up on milkshakes just before then," Jason admitted. "The kid wasn't only overwhelmed, but depressed as heck. I swear, I've seen _zombies_ that looked more alive than he did. Myself included."

"What did you do?" Dick breathed.

"Nothing much," Jason said dismissively, though Dick sensed a slight self-consciousness in his tone. "Talked to him, dragged him to my apartment after he passed out. And when he woke up, we marathoned _Sherlock_ for the rest of the day. He seemed happy enough when he left."

 _If he was happy then, what changed?_ Dick thought.

At the silence from the other end of the line, Dick realized he may have accidentally said that bit aloud.

"Maybe his feelings never actually changed," Jason offered, almost a question. "He just pretended they did until it became too much. Fake it till you make it kind of thing.”

"Maybe," Dick allowed. "But there has to be a starting point to all this. I don’t know, some sort of buildup. Tim's the most logical person I know. He wouldn't just throw himself into something like...like that."

"Hey, even the best of us get down and overly emotional sometimes," Jason said. "As both you and I should know, _Goldie_."

Dick managed a weak chuckle. “Yeah, I suppose.” Didn’t bother admitting: “Can’t say I haven’t considered jumping from a high place a couple times. Nothing new, ‘cept, y’know, I hadn’t exactly been planning on catching myself,” because that kind of feeling went without saying in this line of work. But he’d never attempted to follow through.

And that’s where the problem was, wasn’t it? Tim _had_.

“Bruce didn’t know what to do either,” Dick sighed.

Jason scoffed, disbelieving. “You told _Bruce_? The guy with so much emotional constipation it’s a miracle the Manor’s toilets are still intact?”

“Okay, first of all, _ew_. And second, I didn’t know what else to do,” Dick protested. “Besides, Bruce has a right to know if…”

The slightest hitch of a breath echoed from the hallway outside the ajar den door.

"One sec, Jaybird," Dick muttered. Then, louder, “Heigh ho, the hall!“

A shadow flickered in the doorway as its owner twitched.

Too short for Bruce. Too tall for Damian.

Dick’s heart stuttered, dread pooling in his stomach. Forcing levity (denying the obvious), he called: “Tim? That you?”

Jason cursed in his ear. Dick ignored him.

A moment passed.

The shadow shifted, a single wide— _vulnerable_ —blue eye becoming visible in the crack. And then it was gone, replaced by near-silent footsteps echoing rapidly down the hall.

Dick’s turn to swear. “Jay, I’ll call you back.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, ending the call and tossing the phone back onto the plush armchair as he shot toward the door.

* * *

Dick's heart pounded wildly in his chest as he bolted up the Manor steps, chasing the fleeting shadow of a certain Tim Drake as the teen slipped down the hall out of sight.

How long had he been there? How much did he hear?

Stupid. _Stupid_ , talking about something so sensitive in the Manor when he knew the subject of the conversation was _in the house_.

Whatever happened next was entirely on him.

Panicked, he crested the top of the stairs, slowing to a halt. The bedroom hallway was deathly quiet, and ominously empty. Dick's gaze landed on the third door on the right—Tim's room. No light flickered from the crack to reveal if the room's occupant was currently within.

The air seemed to hang still and heavy around him, as if holding its breath. Ha, air holding its breath...

Focus, Dick.

Slowly, he tiptoed to stand before the thick slab of mahogany, hand hovering over the brass doorknob. Bracing himself, he grasped the knob and turned.

The door wasn't locked. Dick didn't know whether that was a good sign, or a bad one. Carefully, he pushed it open, stepping through the opening and leaving it slightly ajar behind him. (The last thing he wanted was for his little brother to feel more trapped than he probably already did.)

He wasn't quite sure what he expected to see on the other side. Well, he had a couple of ideas of what he _didn't_ want to see there. But the scene that greeted him could only be described as...neutral.

Tim stood before his desk, hands splayed on the polished surface and head bowed so his face was hidden by a curtain of black hair. Other than the tense, sharp slant to his shoulders, he seemed calm, his tone unreadable when he spoke: “Did Damian tell you?”

Dick hesitated. "Yes. But only because I forced him to," he added hastily as Tim's back stiffened, fingers twitching against the desktop. "I was worried about you, and after I saw...I saw the gun in the corner..."

"You _saw_ it?!"

"I asked Damian to check up on you, and when he didn't show up for a few hours, I wanted to make sure everything was okay," Dick explained. "So...yeah."

Tim took a shaky breath. "And you felt it necessary to get _Bruce_ involved?"

"I didn't know what else to do," Dick admitted. “He’s your father, Tim. I thought that if he knew, we could come up with something, figure out a way to help..."

He stopped short as he realized Tim had begun mumbling under his breath, "No no no no no no," steadily gaining volume until he was shouting. "No _no_! This is all _wrong_!" Tim's hands tangled in his too long hair, yanking, revealing wide, frantic blue eyes. "You weren't supposed to find out. This wasn't supposed to happen. Everyone was just supposed to...to _forget_ and get on with their lives!"

"Forget what, Tim?" Dick asked softly, heart sinking in his chest.

Tim didn't respond.

"Come on, Timmy," Dick pleaded. "Talk to me."

"Oh my gosh, Dick, I'm fine, just please, go _away_ —"

"No," Dick said firmly, ignoring the way Tim’s fingers curled against the hardwood. “We’re Robins. More importantly, we’re _family_ , even if we don’t always act like it. And family always watches out for one another.”

Tim snorted. Disbelieving.

“That wasn’t a joke.”

“I _know_ ,” Tim stressed, eyebrows furrowing. “You’re right. _Family_ ’s always there.” Then, so quiet Dick had to strain to hear, Tim murmured, “Not like I ever really _had_ one.”

Before Dick could form some semblance of a response, Tim turned, smiling tightly. “Honestly, Dick, you don’t have to do this. It’s fine. I’m _over_ it. You can leave. Now.” Pointed. Calm.

“I’m not doing this because I have to,” Dick protested, fighting against the walls he could see just _slamming_ down around his brother. “Tim, I’m— _we’re_ worried about you. We just want to make sure you’re okay. We want to help.”

“And I’m telling you, your _help_ is not wanted,” Tim reiterated coolly, spreading his arms. “I have no intention of trying anything anytime soon. I can still work. Still patrol. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Dick _stared_. Shocked and slightly horrified. “What can I do to convince you that I'm not doing this under any obligation?" he demanded, exasperated (scared). "I _love_ you, Tim. We all do. And what you're doing to yourself is breaking our hearts because you're part of our family and we _want to help you_. But we can't do that if you don't trust us."

Tim barked a laugh. " _Trust_ you? Of _course_ I trust you. It's _me_ I'm worried about." His eyes widened, whole body stiffening as if he hadn't meant to let that last bit slip out.

There was a moment of silence, so thick Dick felt like he was suffocating.

“Tim,” he tried, quiet. “What do you mean by that?”

Adam’s apple bobbing once, Tim suddenly couldn’t seem to meet Dick’s gaze.

“Tim. Please. I want to _understand_.” (Something he could no longer seem to do easily with Tim anymore, which pained Dick more than he cared to think about.)

A long moment passed.

Just when Dick was about to give up on an answer, Tim sighed: “I was fooling myself to think I could ever be Robin. No one wanted me; never really met the standard.” He laughed, short and bitter. “If anything, it's _my_ judgement that's compromised. I should've just cut my losses when you both said I couldn’t do it and gone back home.” Almost an afterthought, “Would've kept my dad alive that way.”

“Tim,” Dick breathed, “I’ve done the guilt thing. Your dad’s death was not in any way your fault.”“But if I’d never tried to be Robin he never would have died, Dick!” Tim snarled. “That’s what I get for nosing around in someone else’s business. No one ever accepts me, and someone else always gets hurt. _Always_.”

Wiry hands twisting in too-long black hair, Tim cast a desperate (trapped) glance around the room. “I was never truly Robin in the first place. It never should’ve happened if I wasn’t even Robin… It doesn’t make any _sense_.”

Dick’s heart stuttered in his chest. “What do you mean? Of course you were Robin, Tim. Why would you think otherwise?”

The teen’s eyes squeezed shut. “You and Bruce said ‘no.’ You know what's best. You're always right."

"Unless we're not," Dick interjected. "You remember when Bruce was stuck in the time stream, but everyone believed he was dead? _Everyone_ , Tim. Except you. Who was in the wrong in that instance?"

"Every ounce of logic and evidence said he was dead," Tim snapped dismissively. "I was being irrational from grief, and it just so happened to work out in the end. That hardly counts."

"But it _does_ , Tim," Dick insisted. "You were the only one to truly believe in Bruce, to risk everything to bring him back. That kind of loyalty only comes from faith. _Two-sided_ faith." Dick approached slowly, placing a hand on the sharp angle of Tim's shoulder. "Would Bruce have left clues if he thought no one would be looking for him?"

Tim hesitated a moment. Gave a small shake of his head.

"He knew you would come for him, Tim," Dick continued quietly. "Because he trusts you. What would have happened if you had stopped believing? Bruce would have been forever lost in the timeline. But because you, Tim, you had faith that Bruce was alive, he came back. You brought him back.

"That's why Bruce trusted— _trusts_ you, Tim. Trusted you to be Robin, and still trusts you as Red Robin. Because he knows he can always count on you to be there when he needs you. Oh, I know he doesn't show it," he added at Tim's incredulous glance. "Bruce is funny like that. You know that. But why would he leave you with his cases—with his _company_ —if he truly didn't believe you were capable of doing it _right_?”

Tim remained silent, eyes fixed on the ground.

Realization dawned. “Trust itself…isn’t what’s bugging you, is it.”

Tim squeezed his eyes shut. Swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “No.”

Dick remained silent; because contrary to popular belief, he was actually capable of keeping his mouth shut when it counted, thank you very much.

Finally, Tim spoke: “It’s…it’s more the stuff leading up to it.” He ducked his head against his chest, clarifying before Dick could summon the strength to ask: “I just…I find it difficult to…think that anyone can…can trust… _love_ me when…when…” He swallowed again. Clearly struggling. “When whenever I think, ‘I’ve done it. I’m finally getting something _right_ ; I’ve figured it out, I know what I’m doing,’ it all gets yanked out from under my feet…because I’m not good enough. I’m not worthy enough, can’t be trusted to get the job done according to what’s expected.

“And then I’m alone again…trying to…to figure out…where I went wrong, and…how to fix it, and sometimes it feels like I can’t _breathe_ under the pressure of having to learn a whole new set of rules and parameters, a whole new personality, and…I can’t anymore, Dick. I want to be useful, and I just… _can’t_. I’m not…no matter what I do it’s never good enough. What’s the point in trying anymore?”

Tim sniffled, the sound thick with unshed tears. “My parents. Bruce.” A swallow. “ _You_. Just shoes that I never seem to be able to fill, no matter how hard I try. It’s impossible. Just when I think I finally fit, I’m…I’m just booted out before I even have a chance to truly settle in. I’m…I’m so _tired_ of it, Dick. Of…of not belonging anywhere because after so long I’m just n-not enough anymore.”

Tears welled in the teen’s eyes, escaping down his cheeks as his eyes squeezed shut, expression twisting into something pained. “I’m there…to be whatever’s needed at the time: An heir, a partner, a harebrained quest taker. And…when I’ve served my purpose…that’s it. I’m done. There’s…no point, I…I…” His shoulders shook in a barely concealed sob.

And Dick couldn’t hold back anymore. He crossed the remaining distance between them in one stride, wrapping his shaking little brother in a hug, pressing Tim’s face into his shoulder, and burying his own chin in soft, raven hair.

“I know it may be hard to believe,” Dick whispered finally, squeezing his eyes shut against the tell-tale pressure, “especially since our little clan is awful fond of the ‘goes without saying’ habit, but… You’re part of the family, Timmy. You always have been. It has nothing to do with what what you bring to the table, or your partner status. And it _kills_ me that you think otherwise. And the worst thing is, I know I’m to blame.”

Tim sucked in a breath, maybe to contradict him, but Dick was _not_ about to let this boy shift the blame off of Dick yet again.

“I broke your trust when you were at your most vulnerable. When you were grieving. We all were. But in my desperation to pick up all of the slack Bruce left behind when he disappeared, I acted more like him than I ever thought I would: I put the mission before the members. And that’s never been how Nightwing operates.”

Shifting, Dick leaned back, gently guiding Tim’s head up so red-rimmed, watery (shattered) blue eyes met his.

“I trust you, Tim,” Dick insisted, soft. “I _do_. But when it mattered most, I didn't. I let you down. And not a day goes by where I don't hate myself for that. I don’t ever want to fail you in that way again, Timmy. I know that I’m not perfect. I know that no matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to keep every promise, no matter how much I want to. There’s only one who will never ever break your trust, and I’m certainly not Him.

“But I love you, Timmy. Nothing will change that. And though they may not be great at showing it, the others do, too. Bruce. Jason. Even Damian. We…we all love you, little brother.”

Dick rubbed his thumb against the curve of Tim’s bony shoulder, swallowing past the rapidly growing lump in his throat. “You’re not replaceable. Never have been. Never will be.” Dick pressed a kiss against the teen’s forehead. “This family only has one Tim Drake. And we don’t want to lose him, ‘kay?”

Tim’s eyes were angled toward Dick’s chest. A fresh stream of moisture curled over damp lashes and down his cheeks. He nodded, almost imperceptible.

“Hey,” Dick said, soft. “Look at me?”

After a moment, Tim glanced up. Eyes wide, wet, and so openly anguished Dick’s heart broke.

"Please, little brother. From now on, you have to promise me: Don't shut us out. We're family. I know we don’t always act like it, and we could all learn a little in the emotional department. But please. Next time you feel this way, or next time we’ve screwed up…talk to us? We can’t help if we don’t know what’s wrong.”

For a long moment, Tim said nothing. His tongue darted out to lick the corner of his chapped lips. Finally, quiet, husky from tears: “I’ll…I’ll try.”

Dick crushed him back to his chest, burying his face in his little brother’s hair. “And that’s all I can ask for.” Pressing another kiss to his (precious) brother’s forehead, Dick whispered: “We’ll get through this. We’re a family, little bro. And family means no one gets left behind. Or forgotten.”

There was a long stretch of silence, during which Dick clutched the third Robin tightly; unwilling to release him just yet as the teen’s trembling slowly ceased, body slumping farther into Dick’s embrace so Dick almost thought Tim had fallen asleep.

Suddenly, the teen murmured: “Lilo and Stitch? Knew…you were starting to sound a bit too much…like a Disney movie."

Dick blinked, thrown for a moment by his brother’s unexpected statement. Unexpected _humor_. Then, realizing what he was referring to, grinned. “Exactly,” Dick agreed. “This family really should take some pointers from Old Walt. Learn a thing or two about how families are _supposed_ to act.”

A shaky snort. “You do realize…nearly 100 percent of Disney parents are dead as a plot point...right?”

“Then we should be peachy,” Dick said brightly.

The resulting (watery) huff of laughter sent Dick’s heart fluttering with excitement and relief. Maybe his little brother wasn’t too far gone. Maybe they could save him after all.

Because that was what this family was all about, right? Saving people.

It was about time they turned those efforts inwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep an eye out for the epilogue. :)


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Here it is! The epilogue. As promised. :)
> 
> Special thanks to SummerKnight3, my BFF who helped me fight through my writer's block, and was basically a huge help in story organization and in-characterness since WoW! Also, thanks to IzXaRose (now RedCeleste) for being around and giving her help and opinions since WoW was a barely 300 word scene of Damian talking Tim out of suicide and cuddling afterwards! You guys rock! :D
> 
> Warnings similar to that of the first chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

It wasn't hard to tell that something was wrong.

The family—this dysfunctional, emotionally constipated family—was acting strange. More distant than _normal_.

Whispered conversations that ended the moment Tim crossed the threshold. Flashes of emotion caught by the corners of his eyes every time Tim glanced away. Shadows of footprints outside the door of whatever room Tim happened to be slouched in. Flutters of movement and spots of color (black, blue, _red_ ) in the darkness, tailing him as he patrolled.

That had been Tim’s reality for the past two weeks.

Everyone trying to pretend everything was normal, yet side eying Tim like something fragile, something _broken_ , when they thought he was looking the other way.

There was only one possible explanation for this collectively strange behavior.

They knew. Every single one. And if it wasn't for the fact that he was probably (definitely) under tight surveillance at the moment, he would seriously consider another bullet to his brain from shame. Maybe jump off the roof. That is, if embarrassment itself didn't beat him to the punch.

Sinking back against the mattress of his too-big bed, Tim sighed to the blank white ceiling.

Why? Dick's big mouth... Just, _why_?

Tim knew Dick was only trying to help. But the thing was, they weren't Dick's secrets to share. Heck, even _Damian_ betrayed him in the end—to the loosest jaw of the Wayne bunch, no less—when push came to shove. Which…actually wasn’t that surprising.

He felt like he was walking on eggshells. Like an outsider—no, a _pretender_ in his own home. As if he'd ever really called Wayne Manor his home in the first place...

Tim hated feeling this exposed, baring his soul to the world. This was going to come back to bite him, someone was going to take advantage of him all over again. And Tim didn’t think he could take it.

Because at the heart of it all, that was his problem, wasn’t it? Whenever he let anyone in, they either died or threw him away; in each sense, they betrayed him. And he was so so tired of it all. Which was a much more selfish admission than he usually allowed himself. (Then again, Tim _had_ tried to kill himself a week ago, which kind of took the cake.)

But yet…at the same time…why did it feel like a huge weight had been taken off his shoulders? He shouldn’t be this relieved to have just unloaded his truckload of problems onto Dick Grayson’s shoulders.

Dick Grayson.

Who had taken Robin from him without even asking. Who had, how many years later, _apologized_ for it. Had stopped pretending that everything between them was right as rain and outright admitted he was in the wrong.

It was mortifying.

Tim had failed somewhere. He had to’ve.

It probably had something to do with the fact he’d tried to off himself in the middle of the Manor, the one place where all the Bats could come and go as they pleased. The one place where there were eyes everywhere. It was careless of Tim to even think of attempting what he had in such a public place.

Unless…

Had…had he _wanted_ someone to find him? Maybe…maybe that was why…

Tim shook his head violently, turning his face into his pillow in embarrassment.

No. He wasn’t going to psychoanalyze himself now. He’d tried to kill himself. It didn’t take. Now it was just a question of moving on.

…Which would have been so much simpler if his family’s actions didn’t make it that much more impossible to compartmentalize the self-destructive feelings back into a deep, dark corner of Tim’s mind that life usually kept him too busy to explore.

And yet, Tim couldn’t help the faint glow of hope that was slowly eating away at the darkness in his core. Maybe…maybe this time Dick would come through. Maybe this time would be different; maybe they could _heal_. If only that feeling wasn’t so often crushed by the realities of life. Then maybe Tim could bear to give it a chance.

No, he decided. Better to forget. Better to forget than to give his family the opportunity to screw up enough so Tim would have to juggle forgiving them (again) on top of it all, too. He’d figure this out on his own. Like he always did.

Without warning, his door slammed back on its hinges.

Tim’s skin prickled, muscles seizing, panic shredding through every inch of his flesh in the form of adrenaline as he whirled, wild-eyed, to face the intruder.

Damian stood in the doorway, arms crossed over he chest, giving Tim a strange sense of déjà vu.

"Your presence is required downstairs, Drake,” the child reported, pompous as always.

Tim glared. (Internal terror revealing itself in a rather Jason Todd style: Anger.) “For what? An interrogation?”

Damian snorted. "Nothing so crude. It is…” The boy’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “‘Family Bonding,’ Grayson is calling it. Everyone is required to attend.”

"And why should I trust you?” The words spilled out before Tim could stop them.

The former assassin’s eyes narrowed. Assessing.

After a moment, Damian’s jaw set, cobalt eyes almost glaring in their intensity. "I swear to you that no one is judging you for your moment of weakness. In fact, if I see so much as a pitying glance, I will mash that person’s nose into their face myself. Just…come downstairs. Please.”

Which was…actually half-decent as far as politeness went for the demon child.

Tim…hesitated. A trap. It had to be… No.

Those eyes so like his father’s screamed sincerity, even though Damian’s features remained studiously blank. Though he was many things, Damian Wayne was not a liar. Something Tim both hated and respected about the fifth Robin.

And after… _that_ night…something between the two of them had changed. For the first time since they’d met, they understood each other; they’d caught a glimpse of who they were behind the masks and facades. Their insecurities exposed to the person they hated most.

It was…freeing somehow.

(Dick _had_ always told him that all Damian wanted was acceptance; and for the first time, Tim might just believe it.)

No. Damian wouldn’t betray him like this. (Not again, anyway.) The others, on the other hand…

“Promise?” The word slipped out before Tim could stop it; small. Shaky. Weak.

Damian inclined his head. “You have my word.” Solemn. Straightforward. (So unlike his father.)

Tim sucked in a breath. Bit his lip. Squared his shoulders. “Fine.”

He was going to regret this.

* * *

The journey downstairs seemed to pass far too quickly. And yet, at the same time, it stretched long enough that Tim had far too much time to think.

Tim couldn't...shouldn't... _didn't want_ to face his family. Didn’t want to see the looks on their faces at the realization that their toy soldier was broken; unusable.

…Was he broken? Wasn’t that the question of a lifetime. One that Tim really didn’t care to answer; now, or ever.

Moving on.

(Why’d he even bother with a gun? His own brain was going to be the death of him.)

With a blink, Tim jerked back into reality as Damian slid into the lit doorway on the right of the hallway that Tim recognized as the living room without looking back. Clearly expecting Tim to follow.

Tim sucked in a breath. No. Don’t think about it.

Do this. He could do this.

Breath huffing in an almost sigh, Tim stepped around the doorframe and…

Everyone was looking at him.

And when he said everyone, he meant _everyone_. Dick, Damian, Alfred, Barbara, Steph, Cass, Jason, Titus.

Bruce.

The whole gang was here.

And they were staring.

Heat barely had time to brush Tim’s cheeks before the whole room erupted.

“Timmy!”

“Tim.”

“So good of you to join us, Master Tim.”

“‘Bout time you got here, the popcorn’s almost cold!”

“Hey, mind breaking the tie for us? We’ve narrowed it down to _Monsters Inc._ or _Frozen_ …”

“ _Frozen_?! Who said _Frozen_? I voted _Inside Out_!”

Through the cacophony of sound, lights, and general confusion, Cass materialized at his side, squeezing him in a hug, whispering “Love you,” and guiding him through the mass of people, popcorn, soda cans, pillows (from the bedrooms?), and movie cases to the couch before Tim could fully process what was happening.

And then Jason was wedged on the cushion next to him, throwing an arm over his shoulders. “Come on, Baby Bird, help me out here. _Inside Out_ or _Frozen_?”

Tim blinked. Still in shock. “ _Tangled_.”

Jason scowled. “Wow. You’re helpful.” Then, serious, poking Tim none too gently in the ribs, he hissed: “Bullets have more calories than milkshakes, y'know. Talk about hard to work off."

Tim flushed, a combination anger and embarrassment snapping him from his reverie. “That bar was a _one time thing_ , Jay! I swear, is this going to keep coming up in every conversation?"

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Just so long as I never catch you at it again.” Then, in a low mutter Tim almost had to strain to hear: ” _Call_ someone next time you start feeling self-destructive, 'kay, Baby Bird? We’ve all been there. We can help.“

Tim ducked his head; mortified (touched). "O...okay. Yeah."

Jason slapped Tim's shoulder with his free hand, reeling him in so Tim’s face smashed into him in a…a hug. "Good. We're marathoning _Harry Potter_ next."

And...Tim's lips quirked upward. "Haven't seen those in awhile."

"Exactly, Tim. Exactly."

Dick Grayson’s voice suddenly erupted in his ear, causing Tim to jump: “Tim! Timmy! You voted _Frozen_ , right?”

Jason stared, stiffening under Tim’s weight. “So you’re the one.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “Uh. No?”

The second Robin growled, reverberating through his chest where Tim’s face was still half smushed. “What did I tell you about _Frozen_?”

Dick’s eyes twinkled with the mischievous light that always preceded a particularly self-endangering statement: “That I need to ‘let it go’?”

There was a moment of pure, icy silence. Two. Three.

Broken by a laugh.

A _laugh_.

From Tim’s own mouth.

Another burst from his mouth without his consent. Then another. Suddenly, Tim was gripping his sides, tears welling in his eyes, shaking from the force of his own laughter.

Everyone was staring at Tim again, this time in open surprise; joy, fondness, maybe mixed with some concern for his mental health.

And for once, Tim didn’t mind it. Still chuckling, he snagged the pillow from the couch arm and rammed it into the nearest face: Dick Grayson’s. “Stuff _that_ in your big mouth, _Dick_!”

There was a pause.

Then a mad cackle rent the air as Jason Todd hefted another pillow over his head. “You deserved that, Dickie!” Slammed the stunned man’s face with the makeshift weapon so hard, the seams burst. Tim almost winced.

Almost.

“Pillow fight!” Steph screamed gleefully, swiping an ancient throw pillow and slinging it into Jason in the same instant as Damian slung a blanket into the man’s abdomen. “For Arendelle!”

The room devolved into chaos as the rest of the family joined in; pillows flying, blankets cracking like whips, popcorn scattering.

And as the feathers swirled in the air around them, laughter carrying them to the ceiling, Tim realized that maybe—just _maybe_ —he could stand to call this crazy mess of a family (life) his own after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite done with this series yet. Keep your eye out for more stories in this universe sometime in the future! :)
> 
> Thanks again for all your support! Have a lovely weekend!
> 
> (And we all know Jason is a closet Frozen fan. He just won't give Dick the satisfaction of knowing. ;D)


End file.
